


From Eden

by mvsicbookfrxndom



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: F/M, My First Fanfic, STILL IN PROGRESS EVEN THOUGH I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN A YEAR
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mvsicbookfrxndom/pseuds/mvsicbookfrxndom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In Eve's POV (she is my OC)</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Eve's POV (she is my OC)

I stare at the broken, rusty analog alarm clock across from me, ticking away the seconds until it is supposed to ring. I shift my position in the bed to reach it with my fingertips to turn off the alarm. I feel my fatigue from lack of sleep pull down at my eyelids, but I can’t bear to close them. Another sleepless night.

Each spring in the mattress seems to dig even deeper into my flimsy pyjamas and tough skin when I move. It seems as if rocks are lodged in there. I lift my head and my neck aches. My head spins and colors dance in front of my eyes. It is so dark outside, and I can barely see. A jolt of fear stabs through me. Anyone could walk in this room and I wouldn’t even see them.

I try to rid my mind of this all-too-realistic paranoia, but the possibility riddles my thoughts.

Because of this fear, my shoulders start jumping, like rapid-fire shrugs. One of my tics. My tics are odd because they are controlled by my emotions. (This makes me very sure that I have some kind of disorder, but not the most known one, Tourette’s. Those are random tics. Mine are anything but random.) With fear comes the shrugging. When I’m confused or nervous, my nose wrinkles and my face scrunches. When I am embarrassed, my eye twitches. The other times, when I’m not feeling anything, I sniff and clear my throat every minute or so.

The vocal tics are worse than the motor ones. I can hide the motor ones if I hide in general, but the vocal ones garner attention. They are disruptive.

Thinking about my vocal tics as I slowly, carefully get up makes me scared I’ve jinxed myself. I hope they don't come and wake my parents up. They need their sleep. They are lucky they’re able to get it.

But lucky? No one in this family is lucky. I think our lack of luck is genetic. Do I even believe in luck? I can never say my family is lucky, because we aren't.

I have to change that.

I’m doing everything I can to change the fate of the Clements family, starting from today: my gig at Candy’s Corner Café. If I become a successful singer, I can make a difference in our line. I’m sure I can.

Well, not so sure, but will it hurt to hope?

I shiver. There is no artificial heat in here. It must be cold outside. I sigh. Why couldn’t Mother Nature grace me with mercy? Why is it still cold in mid-March?

I don’t turn on any lights, because I am so used to darkness I practically have night vision. I also don’t want to waste any precious money on something as silly as an inflated electricity bill.

I know the layout of our tiny, dinky flat by heart, and I barely trip over anything as I navigate my way in the dark, stepping over any areas of the floor I know are going to make noise. I stumble towards the loo and brush my teeth, combing my short-cropped hair at the same time, hoping no hair gets into my toothbrush. I can't even see myself, but I know what I must look like ― raggedy and ugly. Oh, well. I’m used to it by now. A vocal tic ― a cough ― rips out of my throat, and I stifle it, as not to awaken my parents.

Even though I know I can't disguise my sloppiness, I slip my thin frame into a dress anyway, just to put on a meagre good impression, and smooth it out over my body. It is much too short, because I don’t bother to buy new clothes until I can practically see my pants over the hem of the cloth. The dress rests halfway up my thighs. I feel air blow between my legs and violently press the dress down with trembling hands. Oh, how I hate it. How will I ever be able to sit down in a thing like this?

A thought enters my mind.

Good thing I am not comely, because in this neighborhood this outfit would be fresh bait for rampant perverts. I can see myself in it in my mind’s eye; sleek and dark in totality and tight in the right places. If I were looking for a mate, I would most certainly get one in this dress. How did Mum get this dress, and why would she give it to me? I guess for a situation like this one.

I keep forgetting that she had a life outside this flat, before me.

I don’t eat breakfast. I’ve survived without breakfast for at least half of my days on this earth. My body is used to this, so instead of having the ample curves and breasts my body tries to grow into, I am slight. Invisible.

Just the way I like it.

I rush out of the flat just as the sun starts to rise, snatching up the nicest coat in the flat, which is a beige raincoat. I quickly grab a bike from the ditch outside the back door. Will, my boss and tutor of sorts, helps me up with…things, and gives me necessities he knows I can’t afford, like this little kiddie bike his younger sister Missy used to own. He’s a nice guy. When he found out I lived in this area, he gave me a bike to ride to the suburbs, out of the slums.

I slip out the back door hoping no one has seen me in this outfit that is borderline slutty. I grab my tiny little kiddie bike from the ditch next to the door, and pull it out on the street. I leap on it and pedal as fast as I can, zipping down the dingy streets. My fingers tap twice on the handlebars every time my legs make a full rotation.

It is unseasonably cold for the time of the year, and I try to ignore the pricks of ice that freeze over my sweat. My arse feels glued to the bike seat, melded to the rubber, numb, just like the rest of my body.

I get to my destination in around ten long minutes. The large music shop Will owns receives me welcomingly. By the time I arrive at the door, setting the bike against the window, the sun is out, somehow not granting me any warmth at all. I am relieved for the rush of heat that greets me as I open the door. The little entrance bell rings, announcing my entrance.

“Will?” I call immediately.

“I’m back here!” he answers.

Smiling, the way I always seem to when I hear his voice, I follow the sound to the storage room in the back of the shop. He strolls out, amber eyes dancing as he sees me. He outstretches his arms and pulls me close, our daily ritual.

“Hey, Eve,” he murmurs in my ear, lacing his fingers in my hair. I rest my head on his shoulder and sigh in reply, not loudly, but enough for him to hear.

And as usual, my body tenses up. My eye twitches and I tap three times on the nape of his neck out of unshakable habit. 

Every day it is this way. Every day I think he will kiss me or ask me out on a date or  _ anything _ , and he doesn’t. So every day I am disappointed.

He pulls away eventually, his hands still in my hair, and studies my face. “So...Candy’s?”

“Yep,” I manage to say, casually, without any hint of desire in my voice.

“Good luck, Eve,” he says, and smiles. “I got the hot water for the shower ready.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” I am so relieved. I thirst for some more heat in my body.

The entrance bell rings and he leaps away from me, rushing forward to oblige his customer. My face turns red as I feel the sudden rush of cold that engulfs me at his absence. Dejectedly, I make my way to the shower at the far side of the building.

Why is there a shower at the back of a music shop, you ask? Well, it used to be the grounds of an exercise gym, where people worked out their bodies. How convenient for me. I may not really believe in luck, but many pieces of the puzzle that is my life have just fallen in my way for me to put together.

Will’s voice is so loud I can hear it from the shower at the back in the store. “Hallo! Welcome to Magnificent Melody Music Shop and Repairs! How can I help you today?”

My face flushes like it always does when I hear him talk. I hate how infatuated I am with him, but I can't seem to get rid of how my heart flutters when he's around, or my inexplicable urge to wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his.

God, I really am crazy.

Trying to distract myself, I turn on the water, burning hot, scathing, and rinse myself off. I scrub the dirt and grime off my body so violently my skin is red when I walk out of the shower. I quickly slip on a bra, pants, my beige coat, and the sleek black dress.

I don’t want anyone to see me in this outfit until I get to Candy’s, so I wait until I don’t hear any voices. When there is silence, I slip out of the back. Will is standing behind the counter, staring at me, smiling.

“I’m heading to Candy’s,” I tell him, my skin tingling under his intense gaze. My eye twitches in embarrassment. Trying to distract myself, I grab a guitar from a nearby shelf.

“Good luck!” he says in a cheery voice. When I turn back to him, he’s still grinning at me strangely.

To avoid making a fool of myself, I murmur a thank you and dash outside, towards Candy’s.

Freezing air immediately assaults me, but surprisingly, I am walking, finally able to appreciate the beauty that surrounds me. Snow has blanketed the plants, cars, houses, everything. It’s so white my eyes start aching, and I rub at them with my free hand. I rather prefer the cold over sweltering summers. Fall is my favorite season, though. At least it isn’t  _ that  _ chilly in the fall. It’s pretty bearable.

Quicker than I realise, I have arrived at the corner of Maple and Edgewater, where Candy’s sign looms proudly. I can see people smiling and laughing inside the building, through the windows.

I long for carefree happiness.

Taking in my last breath of outside air, I step inside the café.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Andrew Hozier-Byrne's POV

I stare out at the crowds before me. They are all quiet, looking back up at me. I have their full attention.

Should that be concerning?

I take a deep breath and start to sing. Surprisingly, my voice does not waver. My fingers do not fumble over the strings on my guitar. I am completely steady, my voice gradually getting louder as I gain confidence. A smile even appears on my face as I strum, my hands flying over the guitar solo as the bridge.

I can't help but notice a girl holding a guitar enter the café while I'm performing. I absorb her immediately, wondering what this girl is doing holding a guitar like it is the most important thing in her life. A musician, by the looks of it, one who thinks of music as more than just organised sounds ― as art, like I do. Is she another performer? I wonder if she sings good.

The girl is very interesting to look at: short, dark hair flying around in every direction; hips swaying, causing a short dress to billow around lean legs; jacket slightly unzipped (unwise, considering the weather) at the nape of a slender, long neck; a collar bone sticking out from beneath a black, sequined bosom; face freshly flushed from cold.

The second she walks in, it is clear she has a purpose ― get where she's going, and quickly. But all of a sudden she stops, screeching to a halt. Her head tilts. She turns to me. Her mouth is open, her eyes wide, directed at me.

I stare at her openly, and put a pressure in the words I’m saying. A smile appears on her face.

One of the employees rushes up to her, severing our eye contact. Their lips move as they exchange whispers.

The employee is a middle-aged woman with curly blond hair done up in an old-fashioned bonnet, wearing a blue, puffy Candy's Corner Cafe dress with cupcakes decorations. Over the dress, she has tied a white apron to her wide waist, with the logo in cursive and borders with lollipops. Very flamboyant, maybe a little too much, but my opinion doesn't matter. It’s pretty cute anyway. I can’t help this thought; I love this place too much.

The girl decked in blue and the newcomer with the guitar exchange whispers. The blue girl puts a finger to her lips and points at me. I feel kind of awkward seeing all this. She leads the guitar girl to the entrance backstage.

How I notice all this without stopping my song, I don't know. It's an odd talent.

When I am done, I scan the other people watching me, reclining in plush chairs and dining with their families. I can't tell whether I entertained them or seemed horrific. After all, I have gotten the latter reaction before.

For a few long, long, eternal seconds, there is utter quiet. Then, a splattering of timid applause. Soon there are shouts of "Encore! Encore!"

I smile again. I've gotten a good review from the customers! I think about my mother and allow a sliver of irrational joy to play with my heart. She would be so proud of me.

I miss her.

I turn backstage, where Randy stands. She gives me a huge smile and a thumbs up, holding out the paper in her hand. Approval. I breathe a mental sigh of relief.

"I'll do an original now for you ladies and gentlemen," I start. Encouraging faces are what cause me to continue. "Umm, it's called Arsonist's Lullaby."

Some faces flicker, mostly the ones around babies and young children. Doubt decides to house itself in my mind. I glance backstage again. Randy nods firmly. I blow air through my teeth and make a decision. I play a few quick notes and force the humming and words from my mouth before I can allow myself to change my mind.

I try not to think about the fact that this song would be so much better with an electric guitar instead of my mere acoustic one. The should-be-intense sounding riff is more wimpy without the grit an electric guitar would have brought. I know the audience doesn't know this, but I still feel it takes away from the feel of the song.

Who cares, though? Better get this over with.

Again, when I'm finished, sound is pacified, even in a space as large as this. A lump grows in my throat ― worry. This is the first time I've ever performed this song in front of anyone but Jolene, and my mother over the phone. Yes, they gushed over it and told me how beautifully dark and morbid and artistic it was, but how do I know they're telling the truth when one of them is my girlfriend and the other is the woman who gave birth to me and raised me?

I nervously run a hand through my hair, looking down at the guitar in my lap, humiliated.

The guitar is worn, overused, the strings tattered, almost broken. The surface wood used to be a sleek, shiny amber, but now it has turned dull. I need a new one, but I can't afford it. Besides, this one's the first I ever had, when I taught myself to play at 15.

Lost in my own fleeting thoughts, I am shocked by the overwhelming sound of vigorous applause. I look up and soak in the bright eyes, gaping jaws, surprised expressions. I even hear some hoots, cheering.

Wow. That is relieving. I've never felt stage fright before. I guess I am just too comfortable singing. Not in the ridiculous “the stage is my life!” way, but in the way that I feel rewarded and honored by the reaction I get when I sing. Every single time. Almost. I will never get tired of the fresh...what's the proper word...whole feeling. As if I'm complete.

I shift from one foot to the other awkwardly, tell myself I should respond to my audience. I raise my hand and wave, another smile on my face. I've been smiling more the last fifteen minutes than I usually do in a week. I guess that's what a passion does to people like me.

I shift myself towards backstage. Randy rushes out on stage and hugs my back. Or at least means ― tries ― to. Randy is a short, stout woman, and I am quite tall, so when she puts an arm around me she only reaches around my midsection. She needs to reach high to get to my shoulders. “Another round of applause for Andrew!” she cries out, making me embarrassed. But the people comply. They still clap.

With a joyful glow to her cheeks, mine probably flaming, she leads me into the narrow hallway that is backstage. “You did amazing!”

I didn't really know it was such a big deal.

When she pulls back, I am surprised by the expression on her face.

Pride.

“I'm so proud of you,” she gushes as if on cue with my thoughts, staring deep into my eyes, her warm, dark ones pinning me down full-force. And all of a sudden I see my mother instead of Randy, standing there, in front of me. Smiling in that same way. Her hands on my shoulders, my heart in her hands.

I miss my mother.

I love her more than anything in the entire world. I love her more than music, more than the breath in my lungs, more than life itself.

I miss her so much.

Emotion floods me and I'm afraid it will show in my face, but I am never one to hide, so I hold her gaze.

As I expected, she says, “What's wrong?”

I press my lips together. “I miss my mum. I sound like a baby, but I really miss her.”

“Oh, sweetie,” she croons, and pulls me into another hug. I crouch down so I can rest my head on the top of her rough, greying hair. “When you find success, you will be able to help her out. You may be able to return to her.”

“I will,” I say firmly, more to myself than to her. “I’ll have to.”

She pulls away, looks up at me, and smiles. “You will, sweetheart. I know you can.” Her eyes, so warm and dark and loving and caring, melting my heart and my tongue, making me feel like talking to her about every single dark thing stored in my heart, that I can’t bring myself to tell anyone else.

“Randy!” a voice calls. “I need some help with the dishwasher back here; it’s acting up again.”

She sighs. “I have to go, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you later.”

I nod, and she twirls around, rushing to aid her employees.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Eve’s POV.

My breaths are uncontrollable, practically gasps, frantic. I sound as if my lungs aren’t working properly. They’re loud, too, and terribly desperate. I can’t get stage fright now. Hell, I’m already up here. There’s no turning back.

I try to steady the wheezes that are popping out of my mouth, but I can’t. Am I having a seizure? A heart attack? Dammit, I don’t know! What am I supposed to do?

Am I seriously having a panic attack?

I briefly consider jumping off the stage and ending it all right here and now, but obviously I can’t and won’t.

All of my motor tics assault me in full force. I don’t want anyone to see.

I never realized how captivating floorboards can be, especially since they’re the only things I can bring myself to look at right now.

At some point, they return to their average, fade-in-the-background, quite uncaptivating dullness, and I can’t bear to stare at them anymore. My eyes dart around, staying at a low range, grasping for a place to settle like a drowning person does for a piece of driftwood. They land on my guitar. My fingers are wrapped around the neck of the guitar so tightly my knuckles are white. When I peel them away, a light sting tingles my skin, and the strings have left imprints in my palm.

I gulp. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be  _ this _ nervous, and never in the starkest reality will I recover from this meltdown.

But with the word  _ down _ , I think about my parents. A letdown. How would they react if they heard about this? How I failed? They’ve supported me through everything ― letting me live with them until I can earn enough money to stay at my own place, accepting my dream of becoming a singer even though it would bring in only a limited amount of income and the onslaught of competition and stress. My muscles tense. There can’t be a letdown today.

Randy comes out from backstage with a stool. Just what I need. If I stand through my songs, I think I’ll black out.

I fall onto the seat and stare in front of me, turning numb and unfeeling in seconds. Everyone is a blur. I’m painfully nearsighted, but I’ll never tell my parents I need glasses, or else they will not rest until they buy a pair for me. And the last thing I want is to be a burden ― I don’t want them to spend unnecessary money on me until they get rid of me. It’s a guilt that’s been crushing me ever since I turned eighteen, and legally old enough to live by myself. I can’t even go to college, for goodness sakes, because how on earth could I pay for it? I’m not smart enough for a scholarship, so there’s no other option but to add a lack of education to my list of shortcomings.

Now, I’m sitting on a stool in front of a cluster of faceless people with a guitar and impending panic attack, turning my dream of becoming a successful singer into nothing but a foolish wish. Time to make that list of shortcomings a bit longer.

I’m so hopeless.

My jumbled brain attempts to still itself, and tells me to play a chord, but my goddamned fingers shake, and the chord comes out warbled, unstable. I flinch at the ugly sound, a reminder of where I’m heading in life, to the gutters. Almost on impulse, I lean to the mic in front of me.

“Sorry,” I mutter into it, and am startled by the volume and the way my voice resonates through the space. Suddenly, a wave of calm rushes over me. I strum again, and this time it sounds right, even to my ringing ears. I take a deep breath and play it repeatedly, a constant.

And I start to sing.

My voice wobbles like a toddler on a tightrope, and the high notes are fleeting and barely hit. But the tics stop. The people clap politely when I finish. I know it isn’t my best performance, not by a long shot. So when I finally make it backstage, I don’t know if I want to faint, or laugh, or cry. I settle on plopping myself in a random, comfy looking cogswell chair at a random table I’ve found covered in books and papers. (Really though, who puts a cogswell next to a table? Pretty eccentric, but that's the general feel of this place, and I really like that. I'm not the one to talk anyway.)

“Damn it, I hate this fucking dress,” I mutter to myself, tugging it down in vain attempts to make it cover more of my skin. When my efforts come with no success, I give up to avoid tearing the only decent outfit in my closet.

Closing my eyes and sighing, I throw my head back so my neck is exposed and cold, a mysterious draft blowing across it and relaxing me. My guitar rests protectively in my arms.

“Exhausting, isn’t it all?” I hear a voice ask.

My eyes pop open and I sit up groggily. How the hell do I feel so tired? My muscles ache and my head throbs. When I look around to see the owner of the voice, my eyes burn not with tears, but genuine and complete  _ pain _ . How is that possible? If my very first performance on a stage in front of strangers was this bad, I guess that means I need to come up with a different dream.

Is this because of my insomnia? Or fear? Or stress? I mean, come on. My self-diagnosed Tourette's syndrome and attention-deficit / hyperactivity disorder is giving me enough of it. (Come on, do you really think I would go to a doctor to see if my medical suspicions are accurate? I am not going to waste money like that when there is free internet at the library, and I have Will to tell me all I would ever need or want to know.)

As of the voice, it belongs to the guy that went before me, the one who sang the song called…something about fire? All I remember is that it blew me away, and completely out of the water. I smile at the accidental pun I've just made and close my eyes, trying to recall the name of the song.

Oh, Arsonist’s Lullaby! That's what it was!

I mentally high-five myself, but open my eyes in order not to seem rude, even though I’m trying to squeeze in a wink of sleep.

Another thought makes its way to the forefront of my mind. I remember how Chrysanthemum called him cute, so I make a point to observe.

His eyes are olive green and deep, boring into me. His long hair hangs to his shoulders in rich, almost feminine curls, although I’ve never seen any boy  _ less _ like a girl. Lines etch his face, but it’s obvious he isn’t much older than me. Stubble brushes against his chiseled, sharp jaw; angled neck; and pale lips, the corners of which are turned up in a faint smile. Curly chest hair pokes out of his plaid, button-down Oxford. His Adam’s apple juts out of his throat. I realize this is an odd thing to notice about him at first glance, but at the angle I’m looking at him, it’s one of his most prominent features. He seems impossibly tall and lanky with my own neck twisted up to see him, and self-consciousness rushes through me. I notice that I’m thinking about how nice I appear right now, if I seem as purely interesting as he does, or if I simply look immensely stupid given how tired I am.

His entire presence overwhelms me in the seconds that I spend gazing up at him with fatigue-laced eyes, and my mind stops working.

Unfortunately, Chrysanthemum wasn’t lying. He is very good-looking.

I feel very embarrassed to think about that, so to help the sudden jitters escape my body, I tap on the strings of my guitar, and they make a quiet, random, musical ringing sound.

Through the fogginess of my temporarily stunned mind, it occurs to me that this man has asked me a question. Is he even as perfect as he seems the second my eyes land on him, or is it a torpor-induced hallucination? This isn't even the first time I’ve seen him. He has spoken to me. It must be because I’m so tired that I’m suddenly and undeniably enamored by him. I’m fairly positive I heard his voice, but I wonder why he has even bothered to talk to me.  My sluggish brain scrambles to recall the memory. Oh, exhaustion.

“Yeah, I’m tired,” I respond in a raspy whisper, and cough when I hear how slurred my words are, as if the reason I’m so lethargic is because of alcohol. I really need sleep. I close my eyes again, trying to calm the whirring in my brain. Then I open an eye, although with difficulty. “Am I allowed to stick around here? Backstage? I mean…” I feel proud of myself for managing to make my voice sound normal.

“I’m assuming so,” he says, his words lilting. His voice has a nice timbre to it, even when he isn’t singing. He has a voice like a pro. Lucky man. “Chrys and Randy left me over here and never came back―”

“Umm…” I say, rather quietly and shyly and delicately. My tics start acting up like crazy, my eye twitching, face scrunched, nose wrinkled.

Eyebrows raised, his gaze turns slightly more intent, taking hold of me and staring into my soul. Obviously, he’s noticed. “Yes? I won’t bite, you know. You sound like you’re scared of me.”

“I’m practically scared of everyone. And I barely talk.”

He actually snorts when I say this. “You’re talking to me without any hesitation.”

I rub the back of my neck with my right hand, suddenly aware of the cramp growing there from looking up. My left hand is death-gripping a different kind of neck ― the neck of my guitar. Watching my movements closely, he slips into a chair next to mine that doesn't look nearly as comfortable as my cogswell, puts an elbow on the armrest, and sets his jaw on the palm of his hand. He has inclined his head, staring at me with an intent gaze again. “By the way, I like your dress.”

“It’s a terrible dress!” I gasp. “So…revealing. I hate it!”

“Yes, I heard you.”

“You heard me?” I ask, confused.

“Oh, I heard you say that you, and I quote, ‘fucking hate this dress.’ ”

“You heard that?”

“Yes. I was just…passing by, and…yeah.”

“Oh, okay.”

The air is suddenly swallowed by silence.

“It looks nice on you.”

The faint blush comes easily, almost as if it was waiting to be summoned. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You have a lovely voice as well.”

“Thank you,” I repeat, feeling like a broken record. “But if you thought that was lovely, you’ll be mindblown if you hear me when I’m less nervous.”

He smiles, the expression brightening his face, straight white teeth making their appearance. Then he laughs, and he is positively glowing.

Wow. What a nice smile. What a nice laugh. I can’t help but mirror both.

“I’d like to hear that sometime,” he says.

“Sure.” My voice falters, and I abruptly feel timid. I must pay him back with his own compliment. “Your song…it was beautiful.” I am surprised by how emotion my voice carries when I say these words. “It really was,” I add, as if I need to say it out loud to justify the emotion.

“I appreciate that.” He smiles again. “You aren’t saying that just to be polite, are you?”

A nervous giggle escapes my lips. “You have an extraordinary voice. I love it.”

“Thank you.” He gives me a grin, his mouth turning up at the side I’m looking at. “You look very tired, though. Maybe you don’t really know what you’re saying.”

God. “Who are you kidding? It really is.”

“No one’s ever said that and, you know, meant that. Like, I can see and hear that mean it. When they say that to me. Only four people.” He pushes his head off of his arm and ticks people off his fingers. “My mother, Raine. My ex-girlfriend, Jolene. Randy. And Chrys.”

“Oh! Chrys!”

He gives me a confused look. “Chrys? What about her?”

“Does she work here?”

“Yeah. Have you seen her before? Middle age, curly blond hair, really green eyes?”

I feel like facepalming myself. “Chrysanthemum.”

“Right! So you do know her?”

“Yeah, I know her. I just didn’t know people call her Chrys.”

“They don’t. We’re just close so she lets me call her nicknames. She’s proud of her name. I like it too. It’s unique.”

I smile. “It is. If I had a name like that, I’d be proud of it too.”

He looks at me ― not just looks at me but  _ looks _ at me ― and rests his head on his palm again. “What  _ is _ your name?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Tell me your name first.”

“Well, I asked before you, but okay. My name is Andrew, Andrew Hozier-Byrne. And if you don’t believe me―”

He digs around in his pockets and pulls out an identification card. He flips it around, showing it to me. There it is: a picture of a face that irrefutably matches the person in front of me, his name (Andrew Hozier-Byrne, of course; I really didn’t think he was lying to me), date of birth (March 17, 1990), dates of issue and expiry, nationality (Irish), place of birth (Bray, Republic of Ireland), and a sprawling signature.

I greedily eat up all this information as if it will tell me all about him, which in a way it does. After a bit, he slips it back into his jacket pocket.

“You were looking at my ID like you wanted to steal my identity.”

“I didn’t mean to, I was just…interested.”

“Interested?” he asks, his voice perking up.

“Yes,” I say, submitting to his misplaced excitement. “Andrew Hozier-Byrne,” I find myself saying. “A nice name. It fits you, in a way.”

“And your name?” He sounds…well, interested.

“Eve Clements. Sorry, but I don’t think I have my ID on me.”

He grins. “That’s okay. I believe you.” He pauses. “Eve. I like that name.”

I am caught up by how Andrew says my name ― as if he’s testing out how it sounds, rolling the single syllable on his tongue like something precious. He makes the short, unimpressive name seem like something special.

I smile at him and he smiles back. For a few moments we just sit there, looking at each other. For some reason, it isn’t uncomfortable.

“You look tired. You should go to sleep. I’m sorry I interrupted you―”

“That’s okay, you can stay,” I hear myself saying. A blush crawls up my neck.

“Okay,” he says, and takes a breath, ready to say something else.

“Hey, Andrew!”

Not my voice.

I turn in the direction of the new person, which creeps me out because it is so familiar. I see a middle aged woman with curly blond hair and really green eyes. Chrysanthemum.

“Who’re you talking to? Oh, Eve! Good job up there!” She gives me a warm, contagious smile. I return it thankfully.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, you deserve it! Hey, are you okay? You look tired.”

“I’m okay,” I reassure her.

“I was just about to leave her alone so she could sleep,” Andrew explains. “Would that be okay? If she slept in this chair?”

“Sure.” Chrysanthemum shrugs impassively, not minding.

“Okay.” I close my eyes and feel my body loosen up as I prepare for the elusive, long overdue realm of sleep.

I feel Andrew get up next to me, heat disappearing.

“Haha, leave her alone, I’m sure you’ve been bothering her,” Chrysanthemum says. A scuffling noise.

“Ow, that hurt!” Andrew’s voice is softer, as if he’s walking away. Which he probably is.

“That only hurt because you’re skin and bone, silly. Come on, go eat lunch and get some meat on you.”

“I think I’m going to get some lunch when Eve gets up.”

“Oooooh. I seeeee.” She whistles suggestively, and it takes all my self control not to blush. I probably could without them seeing, judging from how distant their voices sound. But I restrain myself anyway, feeling soothed by their good-natured, brother-sister banter. I doze off.


End file.
